


Ink

by apostapal



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Language of Flowers, M/M, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 01:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10525920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apostapal/pseuds/apostapal
Summary: The decades-long pissing match between Gabe and Jack over who is the sappier, more sentimental one involving tattoos.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about [this](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/156922243832/a-sketch-of-the-resident-old-soldier-from-the) for months and then words happened.
> 
> Also see: [blue flowers](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue_flower) in flower language because I'm a huge sap.

It wasn't the first time Jack came back from a mission with some body part slathered in aquaphor and shrink wrapped and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Gabriel caught sight of the new addition as he peeled off his uniform and went overly cautious around the space on his hip. It was difficult to make anything out with the coverings and seeping ink but it was certainly smaller than his usual additions.

“You got a new one.”

It was more statement than question. Obviously he did. Jack nodded and tossed his shirt over his shoulder.

“Can't let you catch up.” he said, half grunt, as he fought to pull his boots off standing up.

Gabriel laughed, both at the absurdity of Jack's triumph over finally getting his boot off and the stubborn statement, and rolled his shoulder. He watched Jack pull off his other boot, eyeing the new tattoo.

“What's this one?”

“Something different.” Jack replied gruffly. Gabriel raised a brow, thrown by the guarded answers, and wrinkled his nose at him. The other man softened some and added, “For you.”

It wasn't a new idea; half Gabriel's right bicep was covered in art for Jack. 'No couples tattoos' was a promise they'd made, yes, but everything else was fair game.

“Can I see?”

Jack regarded him a moment, mock-critical, and finally shrugged.

“It's still red and fucking nasty looking.” he said.

But Gabriel was already headed for him with his hands stretched towards his hip. The monotone nature of the new ink that came into view as he peeked under Jack's waistband gave him a tic of pause, however.

“No color?” he asked, skeptical. Jack grinned and shook his head.

When Gabriel properly peeled back the layers of clothing and wrap he stopped, eyebrows raised, and stared at the new tattoo. Jack started chuckling even before he looked up at him.

“You... got my name.”

“So you do know it?” Jack teased, grinning down at him. Gabriel swatted at him, hand smacking against Jack's stomach and summoning a little 'oof' from him.

“How in the hell did you get someone to put a name on your body?” he asked, prodding at Jack's hipbone. The other man laughed, flinching away from the jabbing, and waved him off.

“I told 'em you were dead.”

“That's fucked up, Jack.”

“It worked.”

He couldn't argue with results. Still, Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Fucking cheater.”

Jack snorted and planted his hand on Gabriel's head, nudging him back slightly. “You love it.”

  


* * *

  


He most certainly did not want to admit he loved it but... he really did. There was something about seeing it when Jack was yanking off his blues or stretching, the font peeking out from under his clothes, that made Gabriel go all disgustingly mushy.

“Should I get your name?” he asked once, watching Jack struggle to pull his shirt over his head. Jack stopped, trapped in his tee, and laughed.

“God no!” he said, “First of all, this is my trophy to have, damn it; you can't use my idea to catch up. Second, your name is pretty—mine's fucking hideous and it is not going on your body.” Gabriel made a face at Jack when he pulled his shirt off, only to be waved off. “And third, need I remind you of the press nightmare I caused by telling a tattoo artist that Commander Gabriel Reyes was dead? Because it was bad, Gabe.”

“It was pretty fucking funny.”

“Beside the point.”

“C'mon, let me get your name.” Gabriel pressed, hooking a finger through one of Jack's belt loops and pulling him closer. The other man folded his arms and looked down at him critically. Gabriel held his hands up, framing the spot under his collarbones. “Right here. Nice banner with eagles holding it. It'll be classy as fuck.”

“No.”

“I could tramp stamp it.” Gabriel offered, earning a surprised laugh. He rolled with it, patting the small of his back in an exaggerated fashion. “It's premo real estate, Jackie. People would die to have their name in curly font over my ass.”

“God, no.” Jack snorted, fighting down real laughter at the image.

Gabriel made a face. “I'm hurt.” he said, “Unless... would you like it directly on my ass? Because we can go there. I mean, it's no fun if you can't see it on a beach day but—“

“Gabe,” Jack cut him off, grabbing his shoulders gently. “I won this round. Stop trying.”

Gabriel made a little 'eh' noise and leaned forward, smooshing his face against Jack's stomach. “Not fucking fair.” he grumbled.

Jack just laughed and ran his hands over his hair. “Yeah yeah.” he said, “Sore loser.”

  


* * *

  


Bachelor's buttons were worn in the olden days by courting men. If the color faded too quickly, cornflowers being inclined as they are to drying just as vibrant as they are alive, it was a sign his romantic endeavors were in vain.

When Gabriel got them tattooed on his arm amid the classic Americana art for Jack he knew they could fade. Tattoos fade eventually, given enough time and inconvenient placement. But it made for a unique statement on the old tradition. You maintain a tattoo, get it touched up to keep it vibrant and clear. And, just like the old superstition, expecting a love to flourish without maintenance does doom it to fading. But if one puts in the work to upkeep it, to give it the attention it needs, it never really fades.

Up to end they stayed bright and clear. Even in their worst moments there was never a doubt that the love itself was still maintained. Once, Gabriel went to a touch up session (going over some new scars) absolutely furious with the Strike-Commander for something. Upon leaving the chair, cornflowers vibrant, he'd called to apologize for snapping.

When he first took up the Reaper mantel he hadn't intended to keep them up. It was a liability to go to a tattoo artist in the first place, let alone one that might know the art on his arm–something the public had seen quite a good bit of during his time with Overwatch and Blackwatch. But when the flowers faded out some—marred by violent new scars. And even with that poorly done vigilante persona rapidly becoming a thorn in his side he had to fix it.

At the end of the session, bribing the artist extra to stay quiet, he stared at the blue flowers on his bicep for a long moment before trying to shake the lingering feeling.

The love was still there. It was still the same as it had been when he'd gotten the tattoos in the first place. But his pride wouldn't let Gabriel admit that he didn't feel like fighting anymore. It took an inconvenience, an unfortunate mishap, to force him into facing facts.

He'd never been a creature of habit. Becoming Reaper had made him all the more unpredictable. But Jack Morrison knew him well. So it was only a matter of time before he got caught doing something mundane.

“You always did like shit beer.”

Gabriel froze, hand poised on the bottle, and waited. No gun fire, no fists. Slowly, he cocked his head to look over his shoulder at the man.

Jack stood stiff, face pointed towards his arm, and Gabriel raised a brow. Slowly, the soldier reached up and pulled off his mask. Leaned closer, squinting, and stared the art on his arm down.

“We going to fight or..?”

Jack raised a hand, silencing him, and fixed his gaze back on Gabriel’s face. He looked baffled more than anything, but also somehow… hurt?

“Why?”

Gabriel glanced down at the tattoos, considered, and shrugged. “They meant something. Seems wrong not to keep them up.”

And Jack, rifle and heroic banter forgotten, fumbled to sit down next to him at the bar. Eyes still half on the fresh touch up on Gabriel's arm.

“Want a beer?” Gabriel asked, finally picking up his own again. Jack nodded dumbly and he called the bartender over.

Jack wordlessly pulled his jacket off, dumping it on the bar next to him, and Gabriel took in the familiar sleeve of dark red roses, skulls, and owls on his arm. Touched up over the layers of scar tissue Gabriel hadn't seen before. He barked a short laugh as the bartender delivered Jack's beer.

“Sentimental old fool.”

Jack shrugged and took a long draw off his beer. “Well,” he said, “at least the other one I got for you is more appropriate now.”

Gabriel, despite all his mixed feelings in the moment, just chuckled and raised his drink to his lips. “That's really fucked up, Jack.”

“You're still just a sore loser, you know that?” Jack chuckled.

And Gabriel might have argued it then but, given a few months, he might be considering that tramp stamp idea again. So he just let it drop instead.


End file.
